


grow up

by mainland



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, Humiliation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4259319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mainland/pseuds/mainland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chanyeol never thinks much about Zitao. </p><p>(Continuation of <a href="http://carvone.livejournal.com/3454.html">Seventy-Two</a>: EXO have been kidnapped and Kris and Kai drugged with a fatal aphrodisiac; 2 members are randomly selected every 6 hours and must sleep together to get temporary doses of the antidote.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	grow up

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ.

There is no natural light in the cells, and no sounds from the outside world. Chanyeol thinks—hopes—they're still in Korea, but there's no proof of that either way. They could be floating in outer space for all he knows, for all it feels like, all twelve of them sealed in a seamless, smothering cube. Without their phones he has no idea how much time they spent drugged, how many minutes or hours passed between falling asleep on the company bus and waking up in this prison. He would have lost track of the time afterwards too, but for the persistent tick of the clock on the wall, and the intercom calling out pairs every six hours on the dot.  
  
It has called six numbers since Kris and Jongin. Three pairs. Chanyeol had tried thinking of it like that, but it's hard dissociating when each number matches up with a friend's horrified face. It was hard with Kyungsoo, who went in pale and came out paler, but it was impossible by Sehun's turn. He had gone quietly, tongue flickering in nervous swipes over his mouth and hands shaking just slightly, and now he hunches under Joonmyun's arm, hiding his face. Chanyeol had tried to touch his hair as comfort, but Sehun had flinched away and wiped clumsily at the dried tear tracks on his cheeks as if no one could see him. It made something hard settle in Chanyeol's belly, a simmering lump that sends icy rage crawling up the sides of his ribcage. He's been stewing for the past half hour, repeatedly curling his right hand in a tight fist, digging his nails into his palm before releasing. His knuckles are still red from banging against the door earlier, and they throb faintly with every flex.  
  
Kris nudges him with a shoulder. It's meant to be reassuring but it just aggravates the angry itch beneath his skin. The faint sheen of sweat on Kris's face—and Jongin's—is constant now and there's a permanent dryness in the way their lips are parted. Chanyeol is close enough that he can hear Kris's breathing pick up again, despite how hard Kris tries to regulate it. The last dose of the antidote is wearing off, and it means another round is coming. Lu Han and Minseok are trading nervous glances between the clock and Kris and Jongin, and Yixing's got his eyes trained on his feet, his chin propped on his knees. The last fifteen minutes are always the worst, everyone avoiding each other's eyes under a blanket of sudden silent tension, waiting to hear which two of their friends will be fucking, or if it will be their number that's called, their turn this time.  
  
Chanyeol stares at Kris's hands, laced tight together, and thinks: It's worse for the rest of them. This isn't the first time he's thought this, and by now it's lost the edge of guilt. It's the dull, echoing truth. Kris and Jongin are suffering the most—the rest of them aren't breathing under the threat of death, after all—but at least they had the benefit of arousal when they fucked.  
  
The intercom crackles to life with a screech of static. Chanyeol's wince is practically Pavlovian at this point. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck.  
  
" _Experiment E: Number 10—_ "  
  
Across the room, Zitao's breath hitches.  
  
" _—Number 8_."  
  
No one has to check their numbers anymore. Chanyeol closes his eyes. The intercom cuts out.  
  
There's a few beats of silence before Zitao scrambles to his feet. His shoes scuff against the bare floor in a stuttering rhythm, like he approaches Chanyeol and then thinks better of it halfway. Chanyeol can't see him, but he can imagine Zitao well enough: hands open by his sides and grasping at nothing, eyes wide, half-frozen with an uncertain terror yet unflinching and undeterred.  
  
"Taozi." Kris's voice is husky.  
  
Zitao replies in quick Mandarin. Chanyeol can only pick out 'duizhang', but Zitao sounds painfully determined, almost to the point of eagerness. Chanyeol's seen how restless Zitao has been since the ordeal began, the strain of watching Kris and Jongin suffer and being helpless—the particular strain of it _being_ Kris and Jongin—wearing on him more than on anyone else. He's reassuring Kris, plaintive and earnest, and Chanyeol knows it's a willingness borne of distress, that Zitao is not glad to be picked, only prepared to find relief in the ability to do anything at all, but the acquiescence to their situation is grating.  
  
" _I'm sorry_ ," Kris says. Chanyeol can understand that much Mandarin.  
  
"Don't worry," Zitao insists, this time in Korean for Jongin's benefit. "I will be fast, and get the medicine." He takes the last few steps to Chanyeol. "Chanyeol," he murmurs, hesitant and gentle. "Chanyeol. Do you need..."  
  
It's not the first time taking the aphrodisiac has been suggested to ease the process, despite how blatantly stupid it is. The question is more of a formality than anything else, but Chanyeol is annoyed by what it implies. Zitao isn't a martyr, six others have gone already, and Chanyeol cares about Kris and Jongin just as much as Zitao does. He doesn't need the aid of _fatal drugs_.  
  
Chanyeol gets to his feet. Kris is looking at him with concern, so Chanyeol shoves him lightly, then shrugs his shoulder in the direction of the other room. "All right, let's go," he says to Zitao.  
  
He turns his back without waiting for a response, catching Jongdae's and Baekhyun's eyes as he crosses the room. Chanyeol gives them both a thumbs-up.  
  
He's gone through and thought about which bandmates would be the easiest to do it with; everyone must have, by now. Chanyeol doesn't think about other guys' dicks all that often, but he's not unfamiliar with the concept. Kris and Jongin, he'd decided, would be all right. Lu Han too, with his slim figure and doll face. It would probably be best with someone he doesn't know too well, though he could manage either way. Maybe having sex with Joonmyun would be a little awkward.  
  
Zitao, he never thinks much about.  
  
"Have you done this before?" Zitao asks softly. He closes the door, resting one hand on the knob.  
  
Chanyeol has experimented, the last time being when he and Baekhyun had gotten drunk and decided to explore how far 'Baekyeol' went, but he's never gone past handjobs. He eyes Zitao a little speculatively. "Have you?"  
  
"Yes." The answer comes readily, and the unreadable challenge in Zitao's eyes makes Chanyeol's brow crease. "You?"  
  
Somehow, Chanyeol is loathe to admit ignorance. It digs at him, Zitao's selfless initiation, Zitao's experience, like he's more capable than Chanyeol and better prepared to handle the situation. Chanyeol holds onto the word for a moment, like he can change it by rolling it over his tongue, but finally admits: "No." Then a quick addendum: "A little."  
  
"A little," Zitao repeats. Chanyeol doesn't like the compassion in his expression, as if Zitao wants to hold his hand or stroke his hair. "How much?"  
  
"It doesn't matter," Chanyeol says shortly. He closes the distance between them, making full use of the height he has on Zitao. Chanyeol doesn't take his eyes off him as he reaches for the door. "We're fucking either way."  
  
He twists the lock on the door shut.  
  
"Chanyeol," Zitao says, beginning to frown. Chanyeol studies his face. Zitao's good-looking, of course, but he's never thought of him in sexual terms. Zitao's mouth is a little like Jongdae's, kittenish, the fullness of his lower lip emphasized by his growing pout. His dark eyes are narrowed up at Chanyeol, and there's mascara fanning out his eyelashes. Chanyeol knits his brows, and tries to imagine something dirty, fishing for a curl of arousal.  
  
"Chanyeol," Zitao insists. "I'm serious—"  
  
His voice turns up in a whine, and it burrows right into Chanyeol's tickling irritation, like digging a fingernail into a stinging cut. There's a slow burning through his veins that has nothing to do with desire. "Hyung," Chanyeol corrects.  
  
"What?" Over two years, and Zitao's Korean is still complete shit.  
  
Almost without thinking, Chanyeol grabs the hair at the back of Zitao's head with a swift yank. Zitao yelps when his skull thuds against the door. "I'm your hyung," Chanyeol says. He ignores the throb of his own swollen knuckles hitting the wood.  
  
Zitao has one eye shut in a grimace, but his voice is still measured. "Hyung, please tell me how much you already know to do."  
  
Zitao's patience cuts his own short. It's unfair and uncharitable, and Chanyeol knows he's just taking his own frustrations out on Zitao. It's his own helplessness he resents.  
  
He also knows no one else can see them, and—provided they all survive—none of them will ever talk about what happens during these rounds. That's what lets him clench his fist, twisting the hair between his fingers tighter and relishing in Zitao's pained gasp, before he throws Zitao towards the center of the room. "Eager to teach me the rest? Huang, I never." His mouth gapes open in mock-surprise. Zitao looks indignant, and it makes Chanyeol bark a laugh. "You might have to work pretty hard though." His thumbs dig around the buckle of his belt, fingers framing his crotch suggestively. "Since I know I'm not."  
  
"I'm not either," Zitao hisses. "I am just not a virgin."  
  
Chanyeol shoves Zitao and he falls on the mattress they'd dragged in after the first round. "Neither am I," he snaps defensively.  
  
"Stop pushing me," Zitao snaps back, scrambling upright. "You are. You've never fucked boys."  
  
Chanyeol scowls. "Of course not!"  
  
"We have to, and you don't know how." The curve of Zitao's upper lip is almost mocking. "I do have to work hard."  
  
A thought crosses Chanyeol's mind and he blanches. "You are not fucking me," he says, and a little louder for emphasis: "Your dick is not going in my ass."  
  
Zitao's eyes look like they're going to bulge out. "You," he jabs Chanyeol's chest with a finger, "don't know how."  
  
Chanyeol grabs his wrist, automatically tugging so Zitao wobbles off-balance. He stumbles a little, Zitao heavier on his chest than those he usually pulls this trick on. He steadies himself with a hand on Zitao's waist, then thinks to take advantage of their position by leaning in till his mouth brushes Zitao's ear. He pitches his voice low, like when he's chatting up a pretty girl or on radio broadcast. "So teach me."  
  
Zitao shivers. It's reflexive, but Chanyeol smiles, pleased all the same. Zitao is not small by any means—he's better built than Chanyeol—but sometimes he has a way of holding himself in, his elbows drawn tight and his knees together, that almost lends him an effeminate vulnerability. Tangled against him, it sets off an unexpected spark of warmth in Chanyeol's belly.  
  
Zitao wrestles away. "That's not a fucking game."  
  
"I fucking know that." Chanyeol's self-satisfied amusement evaporates as quickly as it comes.  
  
"So why are you so difficult!" Zitao shrills.  
  
The wall between the rooms is thin. Chanyeol had heard more than he wanted to when he was on the other side.  
  
"Kris-hyung needs—"  
  
Chanyeol corners Zitao up against the wall, knocks his head back, shuts him up with a palm over his mouth and shoves his other hand between Zitao's legs. Zitao is soft under the stiff denim of his jeans. "Teach me the rest," he demands. Zitao pushes back, but Chanyeol squeezes the hand on his groin and Zitao's protest chokes in his throat. He massages firmly, unrelenting, and Zitao glares at him, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Chanyeol swipes a rough thumb over the inner corner, collecting the dampness. "What's next, hm, Tao?"  
  
He's distracted from any answer by the realization that Zitao is hardening, already, under his hand. He looks down, confused, then raises his head just in time to catch the bright flush spreading over Zitao's cheeks. Chanyeol's familiar enough with this part to know what he's doing, but this is still quicker than he anticipated. He shuffles closer, presses his thigh hard between Zitao's legs, and feels the twitch in Zitao's abdomen.  
  
It makes sense, Chanyeol figures, if Zitao's fucked guys before. If Zitao was interested in that sort of thing before all of this even started, it's no wonder he's so responsive. Especially since it's Chanyeol touching him; all of the members are attractive, but barring Kris on most days Chanyeol's pretty sure he leads the pack, so to speak.  
  
It makes Chanyeol wonder if Zitao has ever thought about him before. "You're into this," he marvels, and it gives him a rush of satisfaction to hear aloud.  
  
He doesn't expect Zitao to elbow him in the sternum, forgetting how strong Zitao is when he wants to be. Chanyeol trips over the edge of the mattress, throwing out a hand to catch himself against the opposite wall.  
  
"Don't flatter yourself," Zitao enunciates carefully, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looks livid.  
  
Chanyeol's ankle twinges from his stumble, and he'd scraped his forearm against the uneven wall. "Are you kidding me?" he retorts, gesturing to the evidence.  
  
"You were _touching_ me," Zitao hisses, like Chanyeol is an idiot.  
  
Chanyeol ignores the warmth rising in his face. "Well enjoy it," he says hotly, as if talking louder will cover his embarrassment. "I'll be doing a hell of a lot more in a minute."  
  
"Don't flatter yourself," Zitao repeats. Chanyeol wants to know who the hell taught him that phrase.  
  
"You guys okay?" Joonmyun's voice floats through the door, wavery.  
  
Both of them freeze.  
  
Chanyeol's the first to recover. "Yeah," he calls, clearing his throat. "Fine, hyung."  
  
Zitao starts stripping off his thin hoodie. He struggles for a moment getting his arm out of the sleeve, the leopard fabric twisting around the bulge of his triceps. Chanyeol assesses the muscled expanse of his torso with reluctant admiration. Zitao's better built than any of them, really.  
  
Zitao's fumbling with his belt when Chanyeol snaps out of it. "What are you doing?"  
  
"What do you think." Zitao shimmies out of his skinny jeans, not even deigning to look up. He tosses them on the ground and crosses the tiny room, careless of the erection straining against his briefs.  
  
"Woah," Chanyeol says, raising his hands. "Woah, woah, woah."  
  
Zitao makes a sound between a laugh and a scoff. "I'll teach you, Chanyeol," he says, and the click of his teeth after the last syllable is a deliberate omission.  
  
Every time he thinks Zitao will stop peeving him, Chanyeol thinks. Like hell he's going to back down first. "All right," he says, sardonic. "Please take care of me."  
  
He still jumps a little when Zitao cups the front of his pants and accuses, "You're soft."  
  
Chanyeol shifts but the heat seeping through his jeans doesn't budge. "No kidding."  
  
Zitao's eyes run over his face, oddly serious. His mascara is a little smeared now, smudging the edges of his eyes even darker. He lifts his hands, pauses, then hovers them above Chanyeol's shoulders. When Chanyeol doesn't move, he settles them carefully, like lowering a crane lift, one on Chanyeol's shoulder and the other cupped around Chanyeol's neck.  
  
Five breathless seconds tick by. It's a gentler interaction than they've ever had. Chanyeol has a good idea of what's coming next, even though the thought seems ludicrous and jarringly unnecessary. His pulse quickens in anticipation.  
  
Without breaking eye contact, Zitao stretches his neck upward, fingers applying a light downward pressure.  
  
His mouth on Chanyeol's is firm and dry, softer than expected. Zitao tilts his head, sliding to a more comfortable angle and deepening the kiss. Chanyeol's eyes are just fluttering shut, both their lips slowly parting, and then Zitao bites down hard.  
  
Chanyeol grunts, jerking back, and the fingers that come away from his mouth are bloodied at the tips. Zitao's already dropped, kneeling on the mattress and undoing Chanyeol's belt.  
  
"The fuck," Chanyeol hisses. He tries to step away, but his back is to the wall and Zitao's already got his jeans and boxers off his hips. Then he's got a warm hand around the base of Chanyeol's cock, and Chanyeol half-considers kneeing Zitao in the throat. They have to have sex, but this is extraneous, not to mention he's not sure he wants those teeth near his dick.  
  
"It's faster if I blow you," Zitao says, his hand moving in short, firm strokes. "Maybe you don't like boys, Chanyeol," he shrugs, "close your eyes."  
  
He sucks the head of Chanyeol's cock into his mouth, and Chanyeol almost shouts, hips bucking.  
  
Zitao doesn't waste time. He slides his mouth down the shaft of Chanyeol's cock until it hits the back of his throat, gagging a little. Chanyeol is already half-hard, and the sight of Zitao pulling off to wipe the saliva at the corners of his mouth makes him reach forward and bury his hands in Zitao's hair. Zitao stiffens a little, but permits it, swirling his tongue in a few broad strokes around the tip of the cock before taking it in again. He's more careful this time and he manages to slide a couple more inches in, the muscles of his throat visibly working as he bobs his head in a steady rhythm. He flattens his tongue along the underside, his fingers wrapping around the length he can't reach. The last thing Chanyeol wants to do is close his eyes.  
  
He'd been wrong earlier—Zitao has the same feline curl to his mouth, but his lips are plusher and more sly than Jongdae's, especially with the way they look now, reddened and stretched around Chanyeol's dick. It's messy; Chanyeol hasn't had a ton of blowjobs in his life, but he can still tell that Zitao is inexperienced. He makes up for it though, with his resolute determination, and there's nothing that doesn't feel good about a hot wet mouth. Chanyeol traces the outline of his cock through Zitao's hollowed cheek, cupping his jaw, and thrusts forward, deliberately a little too hard. The wetness that springs to Zitao's eyes and the way he still doesn't hesitate goes straight to Chanyeol's dick, setting a new fire in his belly. It makes Chanyeol want to ring Zitao's neck with his hands and squeeze, pinch his nipples until they're sore. Looking at Zitao when he cries is like feeding a relentless, painful itch; the more Chanyeol scratches the worse it gets, but he can't tear himself away from the sick satisfaction.  
  
Zitao swallows and lets Chanyeol guide his head lower. He lets Chanyeol fuck into his mouth, a little deeper with each thrust, cock drawing easily in and out between his wet lips. He can't manage to successfully deepthroat, and on the third failed try Zitao pops his mouth off Chanyeol's dick and scoots back on the mattress.  
  
The sudden cool air makes Chanyeol shiver. He's a little dizzy, unbelievably hard, his cock flushed and slick with spit, and curving to touch his stomach. He wants to complain, wants to drag Zitao on his knees back to where he belongs and fuck his throat raw, but Zitao is pushing his briefs off his hips and reaching for the already-battered tube of lube. Chanyeol's mouth goes dry. It takes him under ten seconds to shuck his sweatshirt and kick his pants and underwear off all the way.  
  
"You're into this," Zitao echoes, rolling the bottle between his palms.  
  
"You were blowing me," Chanyeol snarks back. "Though looks like you enjoyed that a little more than I did." Zitao's dick is wet with precome and just as hard as his, though he hasn't been touched since Chanyeol groped him through his clothes.  
  
Zitao goes red with humiliation. "I don't want you," he spits. "I want the medicine for Kris-hyung and Jongin."  
  
Maybe it's a transparent half-lie, but Chanyeol's still affronted. It's one thing to see the evidence before him, Zitao naked and flushed with arousal, his bare thighs trembling and nervous fingers turning the lube over and over again, but Chanyeol wants to hear it too. One of the few things he's learned about Zitao is he'll meet anything you give him. The impotence of their situation cuts into them identically: Chanyeol accustomed to action and taking the lead, Zitao self-reliant and tender as a heartache, the both of them gathering frustration like coils of thorns, restlessly winding it around themselves until the spines draw blood.  
  
Chanyeol wants to best him. He wants Zitao to admit it out loud.  
  
Zitao lets out a soft shriek when Chanyeol lunges across the mattress to straddle his upper thighs, pinning him down by the shoulders. He slides his hands up Zitao's neck, cups his face, covering his ears and pushing his fingers into Zitao's hair. When he kisses him, it hurts. Chanyeol can taste blood from his lower lip again, where Zitao had broken skin, but the way Zitao's startled protest melts into a low moan makes it worth it. He slants his mouth, sucks on Zitao's upper lip, and when he slides his tongue over the top of Zitao's mouth he thinks he can taste himself. Chanyeol pushes one hand between them, closing it around Zitao's cock just as Zitao's nails dig into his shoulders.  
  
He doesn't know what he likes better, kissing Zitao and feeling the thrum of his hunger, or being able to gaze down at his flushed face and the unfocused look behind his fluttering eyelids. Chanyeol drags Zitao's bottom lip down with his thumb and thinks with a vindicated thrill that there's no way Zitao never wanted him before, not with the way his body is shaking now. He bends and takes that lip between his teeth until the taste of copper reaches his tongue. When Chanyeol pulls back he can't tell if Zitao's lips are red from kissing, from sucking cock, or from the slice of his teeth, but there's blood smeared on his chin.  
  
"Are you kidding me?" he rumbles into Zitao's throat, casually twisting his hand up Zitao's dick. He laughs. "Are you kidding yourself?"  
  
Zitao's hips buck, but he pushes Chanyeol's chest and rises up on his elbows. Chanyeol rolls off obligingly, because Zitao's fumbling with the cap of the lube again. Chanyeol loosely grasps the base of his own cock, squeezing when Zitao reaches between his own legs and presses in with one slick finger.  
  
"You're an asshole," Zitao says shakily, head down and without much heat. Chanyeol doesn't know where to look: at Zitao's pained wince after he forgets and bites down on his lip, or at the fingers that slide in and out of the ring of muscle, the stretch when Zitao adds a third.  
  
Zitao doesn't notice him reach for the lube. He doesn't notice until Chanyeol's got him flat on his back on the mattress again, his own finger pushing in right next to Zitao's. It's a tight squeeze and Zitao gasps like he's been punched, shutting his eyes tight and curling his toes. Chanyeol's fingers are a little longer and thicker, and when he nudges the entrance with a second one, Zitao tries to pull his own out. Chanyeol grabs his wrist, stuffs him back in up to the knuckle. He holds his breath as he pries Zitao open until he's stretched around five fingers, and the involuntary clenches of Zitao's stomach muscles makes his cock twitch.  
  
Chanyeol twists his fingers, fascinated by the way they're swallowed up. It's burning hot on the inside, tight and smooth. "You're good," he murmurs into Zitao's shuddering neck. "Shit, you're so fucking good, look at you take it." He can't even imagine what that would feel like inside himself, though maybe he shouldn't be surprised by Zitao's muscle control, given his physical training. "I bet you practice in the dorms. This is what you mean by 'daily yoga', huh?" Chanyeol's half genuinely curious, half taunting. He trails the tip of his ring finger over the stretched rim experimentally, and Zitao jerks, shakes his head.  
  
Chanyeol's lips quirk, and he nudges with the fingertip a little more firmly. He doesn't have any intention of really putting it in, already a little apprehensive with the way Zitao's filled up, but he likes how Zitao's thighs flinch like they want to close, the way a whimper squeezes through his lips. He likes the way Zitao stills afterward, chest heaving, unwilling to show Chanyeol any signs of hesitation. He wonders how much Zitao will really take, and impulsively presses the very tip of his finger in. Zitao curls his free hand into a fist and inhales through his nose, but otherwise doesn't flinch.  
  
Chanyeol huffs a soundless laugh and bends his head to latch his mouth around one of Zitao's nipples. It's not much different from a girl's, flatter, still with the salt taste of sweat, but Zitao whines and Chanyeol sucks for a little longer than he means to, even laving his tongue briefly over the other one. He removes his ring finger, fucking Zitao on the five remaining, uncoordinated between scissoring his own and the mindless pumping of the other three, controlled by Chanyeol's hand around Zitao's wrist. He knows there's supposed to be some spot he's aiming for, but maneuvering is difficult, and the hitched _ah-ah_ noises Zitao's making sound like he's doing well enough. They're too soft to be heard outside the door.  
  
Chanyeol slows, mulls the thought over.  
  
He thinks about Kris, suddenly, crouched outside and unbearably aroused, and the helpless kitten noises in the back of Zitao's throat. Chanyeol pulls all five fingers out and Zitao squirms. He wants Zitao to be heard.  
  
He pats Zitao's ass with a sticky hand. "Up," he commands. "Up, up." Zitao peers at him through bleary eyes, but complies when Chanyeol directs him onto his hands and knees.  
  
"It's easier on my back for me," Zitao says, even as he raises his ass. "I relax better."  
  
"Yeah, okay," Chanyeol says. "Hold onto your balls, I'm not fucking you yet." On the word 'fuck' he drives his fingers back inside, four of them at once, and Zitao jerks forward. "Move by yourself."  
  
Zitao looks over his shoulder in shock, though his hips are already shifting minutely.  
  
"Come on, Tao." Chanyeol smacks his ass again. "You look so fucking good, just do this a little."  
  
Zitao licks his lips. "You're into this," he says, and Chanyeol's not sure if he's beseeching or if it's an insult. Zitao's wide eyes look like they're waiting for an answer, but Chanyeol just curls his fingers inside Zitao's ass, like he's beckoning.  
  
"If you want it, do it yourself." Chanyeol tells him. Zitao's thighs are quivering, the unconscious swivel of his hips becoming more and more blatant. Slowly, reluctantly, he begins to ease back, his face and neck growing redder with every inch he takes in.  
  
It doesn't take him long to work up a good rhythm. Zitao drops his head, hiding his face behind his arm, and rocks back with his spine arched. The embarrassed whimpers that escape his throat are at odds with the greedy way he fucks himself back on Chanyeol's hand. Zitao reaches for his cock, once, but Chanyeol bats his hand away and then smooths his palm down Zitao's back to lightly squeeze around his neck. Chanyeol tries not to imagine it's his cock rather than his fingers being sucked in and out; the pulses of pleasure from that image take him too close to the edge. He wonders if just the sounds their flesh is making are loud enough to be heard in the other room. He hopes not, actually—the slick noises from the lube are obscene, and he's not looking to humiliate Zitao that much.  
  
"Maybe I should just ride you like this," Chanyeol says. "You're like a cute pony, Tao." More like a stallion, he thinks, looking at the way the muscles in Zitao's arms and thighs flex.  
  
"You can," Zitao pants, after a beat. His cock bobs, smearing precome across his own stomach. "You can do anything."  
  
Chanyeol knows Zitao means that he can take anything Chanyeol dishes out, but his body takes the stumbling Korean words in another way altogether. He swallows hard. "Well thanks, but I hate guessing," he says as indifferently as he can, walking his free fingers across the curve of Zitao's ass. He slaps again, harder than before, this time with intent behind it, and admires the red imprint it leaves behind. Zitao's startled cry is more than loud enough to be heard. "Tell me what you want, Tao. You want more than this?" He withdraws one finger, and then another, so Zitao's left with only two. Zitao arches back in helpless frustration.  
  
"Ask for it," Chanyeol says.  
  
"Chanyeol—"  
  
Another slap.  
  
"Hyung, please," Zitao gasps, and Chanyeol rewards him with a soothing rub over his reddened, stinging flesh.  
  
He wants to push Zitao further, tease him a little more, but he's too fucking hard to wait. "That's good enough," he says, pinching one of Zitao's nipples, and pulls his hand free before pushing Zitao onto his back. Zitao sprawls across the mattress, legs spread, lubricant glistening all over his inner thighs. He's still clenching, like his body has already learned to yearn in Chanyeol's absence.  
  
"Now I'm going to fuck you," Chanyeol says. His voice is hoarse and deeper than he expects. "Hold up your legs."  
  
Zitao pulls his knees up. "I've done this one time," he suddenly says. He says it like a warning, but he's licking his lips nervously and Chanyeol understands it as a plea. There's a faint lurch in his stomach like sympathy, but Chanyeol just places a palm on Zitao's inner thigh and lines up his cock. He strokes his thumb down the cleft of Zitao's ass, skimming over the skin behind his balls and lingering below, where Zitao is sticky and well-stretched. Chanyeol picks up the tube of lube and generously slicks himself up.  
  
There's no resistance when he slides in, but it's tight enough to make Chanyeol gasp and bite his lip, right into his wound to temper the pleasure. He keeps pushing in until he's fully seated. Zitao's eyes are wet, and for some reason it doesn't tickle Chanyeol in the same vicious way anymore. "How's that?"  
  
Zitao just nods. Chanyeol drops a kiss on his mouth, and pulls out halfway.  
  
He slams back in, and Zitao arches upward with a cry. Chanyeol doesn't think about waiting, doesn't hesitate, and sets a brutally forceful pace. He's waited so long, and now he's going to use Zitao as thoroughly as he can, fuck him until the only thing Zitao will know is the feeling of being filled by Chanyeol's heavy cock. Chanyeol grabs Zitao's jaw, pushing three of his fingers inside his mouth and curling them around Zitao's pink tongue. "Can you still taste me?" He runs the pads of his fingers over the tops of Zitao's teeth, across the smooth wall of his inner cheek. "Think about how good it would be if we had someone else, Tao. Someone else here," he depresses Zitao's tongue, "you'd be so full, you'd fucking love it."  
  
Zitao sucks on his fingers a few times, deep swallows like he's hungry for it, then moves his head away, gasping. He's crying, and biting into his bloody lip, and Chanyeol is still snapping his hips relentlessly. Zitao's legs are hooked around his waist and he pushes one of them up for a better angle, keeps pushing when he encounters no strain. "You're so flexible," he says appreciatively.  
  
"Stop saying things," Zitao pants when Chanyeol leans over to pin his hands down. His cheeks are flushed and wet, fat tears sliding down his nose as he squirms against the pleasure. "I don't—I don't want it to be good, and you—I don't want to feel good when Kris and Jongin can die." Chanyeol feels a twist in his chest when he looks at Zitao and sees the guilt in his eyes, but he's so, so close. His hips are starting to stutter, thighs tightening through the last few thrusts.  
  
Chanyeol just barely manages to remember he's not wearing a condom, pulling out the second after his orgasm hits, releasing Zitao's hands to push his legs together, sliding his cock between Zitao's thighs and riding out his orgasm. It's inconsiderately messy, come smeared over Zitao's inner thighs, a little leaking out of him, and Chanyeol can't help feeling suddenly and immeasurably pleased, though he knows Zitao is going to feel disgusting in a minute and will probably kill him for it.  
  
Right now, Zitao's still painfully hard, hands finally wrapped around his own cock and jerking. He reaches between his legs, and Chanyeol's breath hitches when Zitao pushes two trembling fingers into himself through the mess and mewls, shuddering from the sensitivity. Zitao's fingers slide through the come Chanyeol's left on his thighs, pushing some of it deep inside when he twists up, his knuckles streaked with white. His bangs are matted to his forehead, his chest heaving as he sucks in air through his swollen lips. He looks thoroughly wrung out and well-used.  
  
Chanyeol sort of wants to watch, but he wants to be the one who gets Zitao off even more, so he kneels over him, knocking both hands away and replacing them with his own. This time Chanyeol tries to be a little more deliberate. Zitao struggles in his grasp, but when Chanyeol gets it right his entire body trembles and he curls up. Chanyeol strokes the spot mercilessly, keeping a hand clamped around the base of Zitao's dick.  
  
"Just let me finish," Zitao sobs. "I don't want it to be good."  
  
Chanyeol kisses him, and pushes in another finger so he's stretched around three, fucking them into Zitao's sensitive and exhausted body. Zitao can't last. He screams when he comes, with Chanyeol's fingers pressed high up inside him and Chanyeol's lips around the very head of his cock.  
  
Most of the come lands on Zitao's stomach, but there's some on Chanyeol's cheek and the taste of it on his tongue. He grimaces, but forgets about it when Zitao sits up and starts to cry in earnest, covering his mouth with his shoulders heaving.  
  
"Oh fuck, Tao." Chanyeol takes him by the shoulders, peering into his face. He didn't think he went too far, but then again he never thinks that until Kyungsoo's slamming a door in his face and Jongin's refusing to talk to him for a week. "Are you okay? C'mon." Chanyeol jerks a little when Zitao wraps his arms around his neck, hugging him unexpectedly close, but closes the embrace anyway.  
  
"I don't want them to die," Zitao gulps, face pressed to Chanyeol's neck. "I don't want it." It's guilt and desperation, over and over. The gravity of the situation is settling back on Chanyeol too, as his body cools down and his mind clears. He's not as tense as before though, and not nearly as angry. He knows the antidotes will be delivered within the next minute, now that they've finished their part. He rubs Zitao's lower back. They have some time. They don't have to come out right away—the others will expect them to be washing up anyway.  
  
"Don't worry." Chanyeol tries to sound reassuring. "Hey, they won't, all right? You won't let them." He shifts his legs, letting Zitao curl in closer, body warm and limp. In all honesty, they're not much closer than before, but when Chanyeol reaches up to touch Zitao's hair he feels a little like when he's comforting Sehun. He pushes Zitao's head back, brushing the bangs out of his face and swiping his thumbs under Zitao's wet eyes, then kisses him to still the quiver of his lips. Chanyeol knows the moment will be over as soon as Zitao calms down, knows this will probably be awkward as fuck to think about in twenty minutes, but for now he just lets Zitao hiccup in his arms, and tries to discreetly wipe the come off his face before it dries.


End file.
